Somewhere in the middle of these stories,
I get up and either coax or fuss my kids back to bed.
Whatever works, backrubs, out and out threats
Different days, different means.
I say that to acknowledge that while it’s not the fantasy
It is at least getting done.
And though the journeys vary,
The destination has been met
Some journeys pleasant strolls alongside green pastures—still waters
Others, shadowed valleys.
Yet—the task accomplished
The proverbial pen has been swung
Ink spilled into thoughts, words strung together
For something coherent, light
Incredibly in or far outside my own reality.
Not always linear
Rather, rarely liner
Sometimes it really isn’t about the journey
Journeys can be awful, stressful, cumbersome, un-fun adventures.
Makes me think of tumultuous seas…
Wave after wave of “Are we there, yet?”
Wave after wave of take me back home…
Adventures so long that you fear it’s your only reality.
Sometimes, it’s simply about the destination.
Peeling the layers until all you have is a refined arrow that will fly directly
Slicing through muck, mire
Slicing through resistance.
And destination is the goal.